


fascinated by the human hand

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Fiddauthor Week, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 16:29:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8063665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A short, silly fluff fic involving Stanford's hands. Written for Fiddauthor Week 2015. Can probably be read as platonic, if that pleases you.





	

Fiddleford McGucket had long been fascinated by the human hand. The many variations in shape and size, all still adhering to the same basic template. The superb functionality, far more dextrous and versatile than any machine he could construct. The effects of time and lifestyle on the appearance of the hand. Fiddleford could happily occupy his mind in a public space by looking at the hands of passersby. He sketched them, sometimes, to give himself a break from the dense technical diagrams that filled most of his notebooks. He was not a superb artist, and hands were a difficult subject, but it pleased him to draw them nevertheless.

The unusual hands of his friend and frequent collaborator at college, Stanford Pines, did not escape Fiddleford’s notice. Of course, Stanford’s supernumerary digits were far from being the sole basis of their friendship, but Fiddleford could not deny that he took a particular pleasure in observing what common gestures looked like when made by Stanford’s uncommon hands. How he used a typewriter, for example, or tied a shoelace. When he laced his hands together, or crossed his fingers for luck, or curled his hands into fists to demonstrate the boxing drills he’d learned as a child. Fiddleford tried not to let his gaze linger too long, mindful of his friend’s comfort. He had noticed that Stanford became flustered or annoyed when people called attention to his fingers, and that he sometimes put his hands behind his back, seemingly by reflex, when starting a conversation. He assumed that his friend must have endured his fair share of rude stares and mean-spirited comments, and he had no wish to contribute to Stanford’s wholly undeserved suffering.

Nevertheless, as the two of them grew closer, a secret wish entered into Fiddleford’s mind. He wished to examine Stanford’s hands closely, to touch them and feel their structure. There came a time, after the two had known each other for a great while and were quite at ease in each other’s company, when Fiddleford acted upon this long-hidden impulse. They were sitting up all night in Stanford’s room, studying together, and had taken a break to stretch and let their minds have a moment’s rest. Stanford stopped writing in his notebook and began to play idly with his pen, threading his fingers around it and twirling it between finger and thumb. With his usual inhibitions weakened by sleeplessness, Fiddleford watched with undisguised fascination. Stanford saw him looking, and Fiddleford had a moment’s concern that his friend would be offended, but Stanford grinned and asked, “Do you have a coin?” Fiddleford fished around in his pocket and produced one, and Stanford proceeded to demonstrate a series of tricks he claimed to have learned from watching stage magicians at the Glass Shard Beach boardwalk. When Stanford finished his display, Fiddleford applauded. Then there was a moment of cheerful, companionable silence. Fiddleford knew they ought to get back to work, or perhaps go to sleep. But his eye lingered on Stanford’s hand, resting on the desk with the coin still held between two fingers. He took a breath and spoke:

“Stanford? May I touch your hand?”

Stanford blinked in surprise, and Fiddleford thought perhaps he had made a mistake. But slowly, cautiously, Stanford set the coin down and extended one arm, presenting his hand, palm up. He watched Fiddleford carefully, as if to evaluate what he did next. Fiddleford gently took the hand in his. Stanford’s hands would have been larger than Fiddleford’s even without the additional finger, which made the palm wider than that of a typical hand. Fiddleford stroked the palm with his thumb, feeling the smoothness of the skin compared to that of his own hands, which were scarred and callused from long hours of work in the machine shop. He turned the hand over and brushed his thumb over the knuckles. Here was rougher skin; Fiddleford remembered the boxing. He pressed lightly against the palm so as to feel the bones, the perfectly formed ray of each finger. 

“Central polydactyly,” said Stanford softly. “Type three.”

Fiddleford’s head snapped up to meet Stanford’s gaze. Hearing such clinical language brought shame into his mind. His request, born from affection and respectful curiosity, had made his friend feel like a specimen on a slide. 

“I’m sorry,” he began. “I shouldn’t have-”

“No, it’s okay,” Stanford interrupted. “If I thought you were being rude, I wouldn’t have let you. I have plenty of experience telling rubberneckers to back off.”

Fiddleford knew the truth of this. He was struck anew by an intense awareness of the trust implicit in Stanford’s offering his hand. He looked down at their still-joined hands, then back up to Stanford’s face. “Thank you,” he said. “For letting me. It’s an honor.”

Stanford blinked a little at that. He smiled, perhaps a bit nervously. “It’s… nice,” he said haltingly. “To have someone look, but not… well, you know.”

Fiddleford smiled. Impulse overcame him, and he intertwined his fingers with those of his friend. Stanford startled, but did not pull away. After a moment he squeezed lightly, affirming his acceptance of the gesture. Neither of them knew what more to say. They sat in silent, comfortable contact for a moment, then turned back to their studies.

**Author's Note:**

> http://moonturtle6.tumblr.com/post/127116920171/im-too-embarrassed-to-post-this-in-namespace-and


End file.
